


Some Weird Sin

by monchy



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-04
Updated: 2012-06-04
Packaged: 2017-11-06 20:26:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/422848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monchy/pseuds/monchy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A descent into madness. Adam dreams in red, and the world is angry at him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Weird Sin

  


It strikes him, like, _really strikes him_ once his hands are gripping Tommy’s ass for dear life; and maybe, well, it should have happened before, but Adam can be dense when it comes to himself. So there he is, millions of people screaming so much that he can barely hear the music, his tongue somewhere in between the strings of Tommy’s bass and his arms around him, holding on, full on _Velvet Goldmine_ glam god moment. It’s almost surreal, how he can see it as if he was out of his own body, as part of the audience, loud and surprised at seeing himself on his knees and molesting his bass player.

Tommy is so pissed off at him that Adam doesn’t even bother finding a way to apologize. The backslash, of course, is almost immediate.

The thing is he never wanted to be a gay icon, a morale icon… an icon of any kind. He just wanted to make music, dance around stages and get a little frisky without people judging every one of his steps. But there’s the protestors, eternal in their nagging, making him be some kind of antichrist. Worst of all, though, there’s the people who declared him the representation of the gay community in the art’s world, who get pissed when he acts outrageously.

Everyone is against him, the whole fucking world.

So he knows that it’s too much, all of it: the drinking, the diva act, the fucking every cute groupie he sees, the randomly groping Tommy until it makes him uncomfortable. He knows. Now, when he can barely get a word out of Tommy, when he can picture himself kneeling in front of a fucking bass in front of millions of people, he really, truly knows. But then again, at this point, does it really matter?

*

So life goes on. There’s partying, and booze and maybe he accidentally makes out with Ke$ha again. The world screams at every outrage, every performance, every show of just what a bad example he is, just how much he’s polluting the young minds of America. So much for his message of love and acceptance.

Around him, though, PR teams and fucking entourages, no one says anything. Because after all, he’s still a money making machine. The louder he gets, the more aggressive, the bigger jerk he becomes equals the more the press smirks evilly at printing every story, the more money he makes. So he keeps getting drunk and being an asshole, and loving the life.

And then it stops, of course. It’s not… well, it is hardly his fault. If a groupie goes to his knees for him, he can barely be blamed for not asking for his fucking ID. So there’s scandal, speculations of abuse and rape, of exhibitionism and lewd behavior. One fucking drunken blowjob from a kid whose mouth had been almost watering, and Adam goes from the antichrist to the fucking devil in seconds.

*

He’s hiding in a hotel room when he sees Kris Allen for the first time in months – it feels like years. He’s made it very clear that he doesn’t want to deal with any kind of damage control, and he doesn’t dare facing the outside world where the press is just waiting to jump at him with pointy teeth and no mercy, so when there’s a knock, he doubts before opening the door. When he does, there’s Kris, looking out of a catalogue, white shirt and jeans, freshly shaved and pretty as ever. Adam can’t say that he doesn’t hate him a little.

“Well, if it isn’t Mister Kristo–”

“Save it, Adam.”

And then Kris is grabbing his upper arm and manhandling him out of the room. Adam makes a dirty joke, but Kris doesn’t laugh, doesn’t even change the hard expression that has settled over his features. He drags him to the back of the hotel and to the insides of a dark car, all very James Bond. By the time they’ve made it to Kris’ apartment, the press is already speculating about the disappearance of rock star diva Adam Lambert.

“Well, what–“ Adam starts, only to be cut short by Kris.

“Tommy called.”

“Ah.” Adam nods. “Good old Tommy. And here I thought he wasn’t even going to pronounce my name ever again.”

“You look like shit, Adam.”

Adam snorts. This is the last thing he needs, really, a lecture on how he hasn’t even bothered with make-up today, on how his hair is a mess and his clothes don’t even match. He doesn’t need to hear how before this crazy lifestyle started, he wouldn’t have been caught dead looking like this.

“Just… take a shower, get some sleep, whatever.”

So Kris is pissed at him, too. Of course he is.

*

Staying at Kris’ place for a while is not so much a decision as it is a necessity. The world is raving mad at him, and Adam would rather be a prisoner here than face that anger right now. He barely sees Kris, busy as he is with a new album, so they become shadows inside the house, barely acknowledging each other when they cross paths.

The truth is that Adam is angry at Kris. Because they are friends, the best, but they can’t talk anymore, because Kris is judging him for the first time since they’ve known each other, but most of all because Kris got a divorce and came out, and the world seemed okay with it. Maybe Kris doesn’t have hoards of fanatics throwing underwear at him, but people are always there for his music, for his endearing personality, never harassing him for his latest love story. Adam finds his envy poisonous. It makes him sick.

He dreams in red. There’s nothing but nightmares, hunting images of nameless faces, expecting, waiting, always asking for more. And red everywhere, the color of blood and pain and rage and fear, and he wants it to stop _nownownow_ , but his head just won’t let him. The nights start freaking him out, and so he spends his mornings sleeping, and the darkness in Kris’ pool. He swims naked, and stays underwater until his lungs can’t take it anymore, because in there the world is blue, cold and distant but also eternally calming.

He lies on the soft grass after, cold wind bristling his naked skin. He feels natural, earthy, and the feeling is welcome after all of the prefabricated emotions his live has been filling itself with. And like that, the world is not red.

*

There’s no alcohol in the house, no treadmill, and that time he tried to scream loudly to some music, he got complaints from the neighbors. He’s driving himself slightly mad. His internal clock is messed up, and he feels like a vampire, or at least like an otherworldly creature. He obsesses over the tabloids, understanding that it’s going to be a long time before they get tired of him.

He keeps having nightmares, black and red, scary in their lack of shape. He keeps swimming at night, too, and he also pretends that he doesn’t see Kris watching from his window. Their relationship was always unhealthy, after all, even when Kris was married and they were on Idol, and they just touched a little bit too much, so he doesn’t see why it should be any different now. If Kris doesn’t want to talk but he wants to look, Adam is not going to be the one stopping him.

*

Three weeks into his confinement, Adam takes a long shower, puts on his best clothes and spends hours on his hair and his make-up. He looks good, glamed up and ready to conquer the town, and it really is about time he spent his nights someplace other than Kris’ pool. The pool might give him a blue world, but a club will give him fuchsia, and yellow and bright green.

“I’m going out,” he announces, a sway to his hips and a smirk on his face.

Kris barely looks at him, a sideways glance, but he can smell the disapproval from miles away. It pisses him off, sudden and brusquely, but he’s almost used to anger by now. Kris doesn’t give him any paternal words, any kind of _do you think that’s a good idea?_ speech, but he doesn’t need to. Adam can see the disappointment stretching between them, and fuck, but Adam can’t take it.

“What? Come on, go ahead and say what you gotta say, Allen.”

Kris sags against the counter of the kitchen, looks at him directly, eyes against eyes, and it’s the first honest look they have shared in the time they have been under the same roof.

“What do you want me to say?” Kris asks. “You know clubbing is not going to do you any good right now.”

Anger flares up, high and fast inside Adam, twirling somewhere low in his stomach. He’s seeing red, and this is not a nightmare but it may as well be. Suddenly he can’t believe the fucking sense of entitlement of this little kid from stupid Arkansas, this kid who has always been accepted everywhere, nothing but a simple smile and aw-sucks shrugs and the world is ready to love him. Adam reacts, hard and fast and not thinking, he moves forwards and crushes his lips to Kris’. It’s half a kiss and half a bite, and Kris pushes him away with two strong arms.

“Don’t,” he says, and his eyes are not disgusted but hurt. Adam feels suddenly proud, and almost immediately sick. It doesn’t make him stop.

“Well, if you don’t think I should go clubbing, I need to get my kicks somewhere else.”

Kris’ jaw tenses, and he recoils when Adam reaches for him. “Don’t be an asshole.”

Adam snorts, presses his back against the wall and slides down. He’s laughing hysterically, because he is an asshole, but there was a time in which he was nice, and Kris loved him, and the world seemed ready to embrace him, but now it’s all fucked up and he can’t take it. He needs a drink, and a willing mouth, and he feels so disgusted with himself that he can barely look at Kris.

“You know what?” Kris says, looking at him like he’s some kind of alien who has taken control over his friend’s body. “You’re not my prisoner. Go ahead and get drunk and fuck some kid who can’t wait to take his pants off for the great Adam Lambert. At least make sure he’s legal this time.”

*

So that’s exactly what Adam does. He goes out, dances, gets drunks, and when there’s a kid on his knees in front him in some filthy bathroom stall, he’s dizzy and feeling stupid, and suddenly he can’t take it anymore. He stumbles out of the place, not caring if anyone sees, if there are pictures or vids or whatever, because he’s feeling tears somewhere in the back of his eyes, and he can’t bear the thought of letting them out.

He goes back to Kris’, and almost immediately pukes his guts out. His stomach doesn’t stop rolling, and there are effort tears sliding down his face. It takes him a minute to notice Kris behind him, one hand on his forehead and the other soft on his stomach, rubbing. He’s saying something, soothing soft words against his ear, and Adam wants to him ask him why the hell he’s so freaking nice to him. He doesn’t, though, but he holds on for dear life, because right now the only thing that seems real and steady is Kris.

*

Adam had never believed in breakthroughs, and he doesn’t really know if he had one, but he does know that he doesn’t want to get back to such a low point in his life. He tries to keep himself busy. He watches silly movies, cooks and reads and watches fashion shows. He paints his nails, experiments with new make-up, and finds the courage to call the band and apologize for bringing them into his damn messed up life. He tries to write, and even as the floor around him fills with scrunched up paper, something inside him starts clicking into place.

It’s only then that he starts noticing Kris. He gets out of his crazy head long enough to notice his tired demeanor, his defeated stances and lonely looking eyes. It hurts worse than he remembers anything hurting before. He wonders if Kris dreams in red, too.

“What did you do today?” Kris asks, and it’s a testament to the improvement in Adam that they’re talking like normal people again.

“I watched _Pretty In Pink._ Twice. I also rearranged your closet.”

“My closet?”

“Yep.” He nods, almost enthusiastically. “I separated between approved clothing and things that you should burn immediately.”

“Which pile is bigger?”

“… You don’t wanna know.”

He almost feels normal again.

*

He keeps trying to write, and things start coming out of his head. They’re depressing and heart-wrenching, the kind of music that would never make it into an Adam Lambert album. It’s ok, though, there’s plenty other musicians out there to get people depressed, and his job has always been making happy music. He can keep these ones to himself.

He still swims at night, always searching for the peace of the quiet water, the blue icy cold of it. It’s probably unhealthy, but he doesn’t find it in himself to care.

He starts cooking dinner, and also starts almost force-feeding it to Kris. He’s not the only one with a troubled head here, and he needs every single smile he can wrench out of Kris to keep his own sanity.

*

He goes out one day. Nothing too fancy, he just wants to get some groceries for the recipe his mom mailed him, and maybe remember what the outside world is like. He puts on regular clothes, jeans, a shirt and a hat, and he smells the air and feels the sun on his skin. It’s early morning and also the first time he’s been awake at this hour in the last couple of months. It feels refreshing.

The paps show up, of course, because apparently even when he’s trying to get some fruit his life is more interesting than someone else’s. They ask about everything: rape and abuse accusations, why he’s hiding, if he’s having a secret affair with Kris Allen, and their tone is aggressive and almost scary. He escapes, but his head is spinning, reminding him that the world out there is still out to get him, that it won’t forget, and that it wants answers. He has to talk to his PR, think up a strategy and try to face his mistakes, but for now he just stuffs his fruit in Kris’ fridge, and pukes his breakfast.

*

Adam has nightmares, and his nightmares are red. Angry red, the kind that blurs your vision and makes you hurt the people you love, the kind that conquers your system and makes you go mad, deaf, blind. Adam fights them the only way he can: he throws himself into the blue waters of Kris’ pool, and stays under, where the world is blue and quiet.

Tonight, after facing the world again and getting bitchslapped in the face, he stays longer, just a little longer, until his lungs start to complain and his head starts to feel dizzy, loose, a bit lost. He only comes out when he can’t take it anymore, breaking the quietness of the water with the intensity of the breath he takes. The first thing he sees is Kris kneeling by the pool, his hand nearly touching the water. His breathing is ragged when he says:

“I didn’t think you were coming out.”

“I’m not suicidal yet.”

Kris breathes out slowly, and Adam reaches out and pulls him inside the pool. Kris lands with a splash, and emerges with soaked clothes and a silly smile. And of course Adam kisses him, and this time Kris doesn’t push him back. The water is cold but they’re not as they fumble against Kris’ clothes, which are almost stuck to him as a second skin. They touch, and it’s easy and soft. They step away from the pool and lie down on the grass, and Adam thinks that maybe he hurts Kris a little when they fuck, but Kris is holding onto him hard and strong, as if afraid that Adam will disappear if he lets go. It’s as close to perfection as Adam is ever going to get.

*

There’s a cluster of five freckles right where Adam’s neck meets his shoulder, and Kris seems to be in love with it. He presses his fingers there softly, watching the skin turn whiter under the pressure. Adam lets him. He lets him do as he pleases, and gives him everything he asks for. It seems, almost, as if they’re discovering sex all over again. They do it everywhere and anytime, and they use ropes, props, food, anything. When Kris gets angry at him, he pushes hard, tops him, or rides him until Adam can’t breathe.

But they also sleep. At night, when it’s dark outside, snuggling together in a bed that’s almost too big. And Adam doesn’t dream.

*

When his PR team starts insisting about him going back to the real world, he tells Kris about his nightmares. He tells him that he dreams read, that he doesn’t know if it’s the anger of the world or his own, but it freaks him out, scares him to death.

“But red is also the color of love,” Kris says. “Of passion, and flowers and spring.”

“That’s almost a song.” Adam replies.

“It’s also the color of your tongue. And of your lips.”

*

In the end, it seems as if there’s nothing else to do but yield and go into the mini-tour the PR team proposes. They talk to him about keeping it clean, and they promise that they will control every interviewer he meets, and that the press will be at its best behavior. Adam only accepts because Kris has to tour, too, anyway, and he doesn’t think he can bear the thought of living alone right now. He makes the guys in the band promise that they will tie him up if he even thinks of misbehaving.

He presses lingering kiss upon lingering kiss on Kris’ lips as the days move closer towards the beginning of the tour. He’s afraid of facing the world, of the possibility that his fans may have turned their backs on him. He goes back to that moment, and sees it almost as if it’s happening again: how he decided that molesting Tommy onstage was a great idea. He can feel his own descent into madness prickling at his skin, and he finds himself begging that he can hold onto the feelings that have grown within him since he has Kris as a permanent fixture in his life.

*

He leaves Kris after clinging to him for hours that feel like seconds. His gaze lingers on the walls of what was almost a prison, and on the quiet waters of Kris’ pool, his blue, quiet world.

He hugs his band, apologizes again, and feels himself start getting breathless.

When he walks inside his tour bus, he catches a flowery scent, and then gazes at the roses. There are dozens of them scattered all over the place, perfect and vibrant and red. There’s no card, but then again, there’s no need for one.


End file.
